


In the Woods Somewhere

by ragtags



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Longing, M/M, Some Fluff, a bit of angst, also this is based off a digital painting, and i couldn't not write something about it, and like damn, general kind of coming to feelings kind of fic u feel, general misunderstanding, its such a good piece of artwork, kinda slips into the canon and then back out post end times, oh also this is a birthday gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24195094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragtags/pseuds/ragtags
Summary: The sky, inky black and motionless, just like the world, hovers endlessly above him. He swallows; takes a moment to ground himself, and searches.  He looks for any sign that he’s not alone in this strange, new world.And then there’s light.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 6
Collections: MoFu Birthdays





	In the Woods Somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> A super big happy birthday fic for Ran who is in this super cool server I'm also apart of! I based this fic on a piece of art she did that absolutely caught my eye and was so breathtaking I absolutely couldn't not write a piece based on the art that so heavily inspired it. You can find the link to the piece of art here: https://ran196242.tumblr.com/post/614494504528003072/thumbnails-for-to-the-world-we-lost-rodeomens-and

Everything happens for a reason, and there is a reason for everything.

At least, that’s what Crowley has told himself. It’s what Crowley has always told himself.

There was a reason he fell.

There was a reason he met Aziraphale.

There was a reason they seemed to work on every level of existence, and yet– he still found himself unable to process what that reason was.

So he tries not to think of it too much; tries to push it to the furthest reaches in the back of his mind and hopes that perhaps maybe, just maybe, if he shoves it into the darkest corner, he won’t have to think of it again.

Unfortunately, his brain has other ideas.

It starts first in 1862, several hours after the pair had met up in St. James's Park. Crowley had asked for Holy Water. Aziraphale had scoffed. Words were exchanged, and the air of their ‘arrangement’ seemed to disappear in a puff of smoke. Crowley had cursed under his breath as Aziraphale walked away. He had stood there, perhaps too long, staring out at the water and the ducks. He had grumbled to himself, told himself he would nap until the late nineteenth century; that seemed logical.

So he did. He had crawled up into his flat for a very long nap. He hadn’t even removed his clothes. He just lay there, on his silk bed, staring up at a cement sky and replaying every last bit of the interaction between him and Aziraphale. It was a movie, continuous in every way possible; the sounds, smells, taste of the air still lingers around him as he stares up at that cement sky.

Crowley did not remember when sleep took him. He had allowed his serpent eyes to melt into the back of his brain as it replayed their argument over and over.

When Crowley awoke, however, he had found that he was no longer in his flat staring up at his cement sky. Instead, he had found himself in the middle of the woods.

Was it the woods? Is it the woods?

Everything here is dark; similar to Hell but it smells like the forest. Peat moss and wet dirt, almost like his flat, though he had remembered a bed, and a never-ending coffin of concrete. This was not his flat. This was not London. Crowley sat up and adjusted himself. Even his clothes had changed. This he found especially strange, but shrugged it off. Perhaps everything else was a dream, and this was reality; the robes that now adorned his body felt as real as ever. Maybe it was this Victorian London that was merely the mirage of his sleep.

So he walked. Through the thick brush and heavy trees; through the muck and mire that was the world around him. Everything had seemed foreign and yet somehow familiar. It was not Hell, that much is certain, and the more Crowley walked on, the darker the canopy above seemed to become.

This would not be the last time Crowley came to this place.

He would again experience it in 1933, at the beginnings of World War Two. He and Aziraphale had gotten into an argument. They had fought over whether it was within their job description to aid mankind in defeating Hitler. Naturally, Crowley had mused that it was mankind’s creation, and mankind’s job to defeat. Aziraphale had not felt the same. So Crowley, once more, descended to his flat and decided he would sleep it off.

When he returned, it was much different than the last time. The trees had changed; warped into something more sinister than before. To Crowley, they seemed almost impossible, yet somewhere in the back of his brain, he had reasoned that this was merely a trick of his own doing.

The thing about these dreams, if he could even call them that, was simply that they didn’t feel dream-like. Crowley had dreamt before, he was certain of it. He had dreamt about Eden. He had dreamt about Aziraphale and him in Rome eating oysters. He had dreamt, often, about his fall from Heaven. This felt like none of those previous times.

And he would recount every time he returned to the forest. It consumed him. He would journal each and every dream as if it were another verse handed down to him from the Almighty; a puzzle designed just for him.

A story left unfinished.

The next time it happens is just before Armageddon.

They had gone to their third rendezvous point. There had been a fight.

Crowley had tried to reason with Aziraphale. Aziraphale, for all he had been worth, fought against it.

He had left first this time; walked away from Aziraphale who had so quietly, too quietly, begged him not to leave. What was the point? The world was about to end, and Crowley had decided he would sleep through it.

Crowley had barely made it to his bed this time. Anger, frustration, hurt all clouding his brain as he moved through an empty home towards his bed. He would return to that forest and stay there until Hell came for him.

This time, things are much different. Crowley is not laying in peat moss and mud; but rather is standing and dressed in his own clothes. Everything feels normal now. Even his rage is retained within his chest, burning and flickering up and up into his throat. He does, as he has always done, and begins walking.

For being a demon, Crowley doesn’t very much like this place. He doesn’t like the overwhelming smells and the damp, wet floor beneath his feet. He doesn’t like the lack of light, or the fact that this place feels somehow worse than Hell if that could even be possible. The worst part, he realizes, is that time itself seems to meld into the world and lose itself. By the time Crowley stops walking, he isn’t sure how many minutes, hours, or even days have passed. It’s all one giant forest, and he is the needle in the proverbial haystack.

It’s always been like this, surely, but this time he notices it with refined senses. He takes note of how long he thinks he’s been here. He wonders how often he’s allowed himself to forget in the past.

There’s something about a forest, particularly this one, that tickles Crowley in a certain way. It’s usually easy to recognize the leaves on the trees, or the age of the bark; how strong and deep the roots go into the soil to firmly hold it in place like a soldier. A forest is something living, breathing; it is a place that thrives on the wind and sun and beings to populate it and continue its story. This place, Crowley realizes, is none of that. It lacks life. It lacks the soul that most all forests on Earth seem to hold within the core of each individual tree.

He scoffs.

That’s stupid.

Trees aren’t alive.

Well, they are, but not in the way that ducks are alive.

Crowley starts walking again. He continues his journey through the dead void of forest, serpent eyes watching the trees as they thicken and begin to slowly thin out, until each branch is bare and naked against the night sky. He’s never been this far before, or if he has, it’s different from the last time.

That’s when, for the first time, Crowley notices the stars.

Or well, lack thereof.

The sky, inky black and motionless, just like the world, hovers endlessly above him. He swallows; takes a moment to ground himself, and searches. He looks for any sign that he’s not alone in this strange, new world.

And then there’s light.

Well, it’s not so much light as it is a spotlight. A column of orange and red just beyond his peripheral vision. His head swivels towards it, watching as it grows wider and wider until it barely illuminates his face. There’s something about this light; the way it catches his eyes perhaps, or the way it immobilizes him like a moth to flame.

This is new.

He can feel the pang of anger rising and falling in his chest as he begins to walk towards it. The feeling grows; his hands turn to fists as each step becomes more and more calculated than the last. When Crowley had started this journey so many years ago, he was merely a wanderer. Now, he walks with determination and conviction in his step; there is something just beyond his reach and he needs to find it.

It doesn’t take him long either. Just on a hill, just far enough in the distance that he has to squint, he sees it. It’s London. Specifically, it’s Soho, and it’s the corner where Aziraphale’s bookshop sits. Except there is no bookshop. There’s only trees, books strewn about the ground, and darkness, yet somehow Crowley knows this to be Soho.

In the center of this clearing that is the Soho-that-never-was, stands Aziraphale.

Crowley tries to approach. Aziraphale’s head turns to look at him, and Crowley stops his march. Aziraphale’s stare burns at him. It burns away his jacket and shirt; leaves him bare and vulnerable. It’s that stare that gets to Crowley; that makes his blood rush to his head. It’s a kind look, a loving look. The look he’s always been given by Aziraphale. It’s love. Crowley hisses, yet no sound escapes his mouth. There’s so much to say, and so little time to say it.

‘Why are you here?’

‘Why didn’t you listen to me?’

‘We could have run away together before the end of the world?’

‘Why do you think we aren’t the same?’

‘Why do I feel like I’m going to lose you?’

Crowley approaches with flailing arms as he tries to scream, tries to explain every last thought that comes to mind. Aziraphale just stares and smiles that stupid smile and Crowley knows there’s no explaining it.

Aziraphale doesn’t understand.

Aziraphale doesn’t see what’s happening.

Aziraphale is too tunnel-visioned.

Aziraphale–

The beam of light that had brought Crowley to Aziraphale reappears, thinner this time. It comes like a wave of heat against Crowley’s face and body. Aziraphale’s face has changed. There’s no more smile. There’s only fear. Crowley watches as Aziraphale’s wings explode from his back and stretch upwards towards the sky.

And then Aziraphale begins to ascend.

And Crowley is running to catch him, to grab frantically at lapels and try to pull him down again. His hands caress Aziraphale’s cheeks as he tries to scream Aziraphale’s name.

This is it.

This is the End Times.

Aziraphale is ascending to Heaven and Crowley will be left in the murk and mire of the forest to fend for himself when Aziraphale goes off to war. The bandstand is the last time…

Crowley awakes with a start.

There’s a pounding in his chest and in his head.

He reaches for his phone.

The date reads three weeks past Armageddon. Crowley inhales sharply. It takes him a moment to sit back and register the world around him. He’s back in his flat, back in his own body. Slowly, he plants his feet on cold cement floor. His memory begins to slowly recount every detail of what happened.

They had met back up.

They had saved the Earth.

They had switched bodies and saved each other.

They had gone for lunch at the Ritz.

They had made it.

Crowley sighs and rubs his face. There are still things left unsaid.

“Come on,” he hisses into the receiver of his phone as he shuffles to his car. “Pick up.”

“Hello, thank you for calling A.Z. Fell and Co. We are currently clo–”

“Pick up, angel,” Crowley snaps.

There’s a moment of silence, and then the click of a receiver.

“Crowley? Crowley, dear, is that you?” Aziraphale asks.

“Wh– whh–who– well who else do you think it is? Of course it’s me!” Crowley huffs.

“Oh, oh I’m terribly sorry dear,” Aziraphale sighs, “had to be sure you know. I’ve been ever so on edge since… well, you know.”

Crowley sighs. He gets it, though he wishes he could ignore it.

“Don’t worry, angel. Heaven and Hell aren’t going to bother us for a bit. It’s safe.” It’s not as reassuring as Crowley wishes he could make it sound, but it seems to do the trick. Aziraphale sighs, and when he speaks again, there’s a calmness to his voice.

“Oh, oh you’re right. I’m sorry, dear. I just worry.”

“Yeah, yeah I get it. You free?” Crowley closes the door to his car and begins driving towards Soho.

“Oh, y-yes, I believe I am,” Aziraphale says perhaps a little too excitedly, “is something the matter?”

“Matter? Mmm, no, s’nothing too important, just…” Crowley pauses. He fumbles the words over a forked tongue, playing with what he wants to say- what he needs to say. “Just thought s’a good time to catch up.”

“Catch up?” There’s confusion in Aziraphale’s voice. “Oh! Oh, yes, catch up. Right. Yes. Of course. You know, I have a simply divine bottle of–”

“Right. See you then, angel.”

Crowley huffs as he hangs up the phone.

There’s something to be said about near-death experiences and being celestial. They shouldn’t bother Crowley, and yet, the more he thinks about his dream and the events of the last few weeks, he can’t help but fear it. He fears the day the real Armageddon comes. He fears what will happen then; will he and Aziraphale truly be on their own side, or will Heaven and Hell forget their anger long enough to re-enlist them both within the ranks? It’s something he doesn’t want to think about; not now at least.

“Angel,” Crowley sighs as he steps through the door to the bookshop. Everything has changed since the fire and their time as each other. Aziraphale, for one, had put all of his books back into the order they were originally. Personally, Crowley doesn’t understand the need, but if it helps Aziraphale cope, then who was he to question. In the center of the once semi-empty lobby sits a table with two chairs, two bottles of wine and two glasses filled. Aziraphale, Crowley notes, has gone to the far extent of selecting a cheese board for the pair to share—a joke, considering Crowley isn’t one for eating.

“Oh! Crowley!” Aziraphale hums as he walks out of the backroom, “Welcome, dear, welcome!”

“Y-yeah. Thanks,” Crowley mutters.

“So,” Aziraphale begins, large blue eyes staring at Crowley, “what was it that you wished to talk about?”

Ahh. There it is. The crux of the problem. How to talk to Aziraphale about dreams, about the End Times...about how terribly close they came to losing it all.

Crowley takes a seat and begins to sip the wine. Aziraphale does the same in kind.

“Y’see, angel,” Crowley begins. It’s slow, calculated. He needs to explain it all, but he needs to separate the dream from reality. He tells Aziraphale about the forest, about the endless void of ink swallowing him whole every time he had fallen asleep. He talks at length about the forest and the realness to each and every aspect. In the end, Crowley even tells Aziraphale about the most recent dream, the one that had seemed so real, he thought he had missed Armageddon.

“So, you see,” Crowley concludes, now several glasses in, “you see… I thought… I thought you were gone. Completely. You know. Poof.”

Aziraphale sits there, bright blue eyes wide with wonder, and it takes Crowley a full minute to realize that Aziraphale has been staring. Crowley can feel the flush under his glasses; surely Aziraphale must see it too.

Aziraphale reaches over and takes Crowley’s hand gingerly.

“I’m… terribly sorry to have worried you, my dear,” Aziraphale begins. Crowley laughs.

“Worried?!” he retorts, “I wasn’t worried I was...I was petrified. Thought I’d lost you… thought I’d–”

“Never see you again?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley sits there, silent. Slowly, he nods.

Crowley is lost in his own thoughts; doesn’t feel Aziraphale remove his hand and slide out of his chair. He doesn’t realize Aziraphale is there now, in front of him, kneeling. It’s only when Aziraphale begins to remove Crowley’s glasses, does he realize what’s happening.

“A– angel,” Crowley stutters. Aziraphale shushes him with a finger to Crowley’s lips.

“My dear,” Aziraphale begins. He sets Crowley’s glasses on the table and takes his hands, lacing his fingers between Crowley’s.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

The words are just enough for Crowley. He can feel walls thousands of years old begin to break down slowly, and then all at once. He doesn’t cry, because he’s a demon, but he can feel the tightness in his chest at the set, calm tone coming from Aziraphale. He knows this look, and he knows this voice. It’s love. It’s always been there and it’s something, Crowley reckons, that always will be.

It takes Crowley a moment to gather himself, nodding his head a little too quickly before pulling Aziraphale’s hands up to his mouth and gently placing a kiss on them.

“I don’t know… what I’d do without you,” Crowley confesses.

Aziraphale simply smiles and stands up. He leans into Crowley and gently places a kiss on Crowley’s cheek.

“You don’t need to worry about that, my dear.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft now. It’s tender and loving and enveloping Crowley’s entire essence. They stay like that for a time, taking in each other’s embrace and presence.

It’s okay, Crowley reminds himself as Aziraphale moves back towards his seat and pours them both another glass. It’s okay and it’s going to be okay, so long as they have each other. Crowley smiles. He’ll take it; all of it, so long as they’re side by side.


End file.
